I’ve always hated it when people assume I’m simple. Just because I don’t act like a pseudo-intellectual snob doesn’t mean I don’t have a functioning brain…but then something happens that reminds me that I give others plenty of ammunition to assume I am a few bricks short of a full load. Like when I choose an analogy with the words “brick” and “load”, knowing the connotations both those words carry beyond their intended meaning. At least with my friends.

So I am going over to a friend’s house to watch Dexter. Who is HOT! Dexter, I mean. Even if he is a serial killer, he’s a HOT serial killer. Because looking good can get you excused from all sorts of mayhem. But that really isn’t the point of my story. Even though a whole blog post about how HOT Dexter is would probably get a lot of hits.

So, again, I am going over to a friend’s house to watch Dexter. I have with me a bottle of red wine, because everybody know you don’t drink white when you are watching TV about serial killers. I have *some* class, people. Now, I confess–I am horrible with numbers. I don’t mean with math, just with the digits themselves. I can compute the resultant force of two masses pushing against each other, but I can’t remember two numbers. And if I am lucky enough to remember them, I flip them. This made learning lots of fun, and explains why I was an English major.

So I go up to house number 34, 100% positive that this is my friends house. I ring the bell. An old woman answers the door, looking a little concerned, but that’s how old ladies always look. I think it’s a lack of fiber. I figure this is Lisa’s mother, since her parents are living with her. I ask for Lisa. She tells me, “I’m not Lisa, I’m Louise.” Um, but that’s not Lisa, now is it? I apologize, knowing I have the wrong house, obviously, and Louise starts looking at me with the same sort of pitiful look she gives slow puppies. Great. Louise is judging me. She suggests I try number 43, which I think is a fabulous idea. After all, I probably just flipped the numbers.

So I take my bottle of red, and truck across the street, and ring the bell of number 43…and ask for Lisa. Who apparently doesn’t live here either. But Maryanne is very nice, and notices the bottle of wine, and says I must be a very nice friend. I think I’d like to party with Maryann some day, because she doesn’t judge me. She thinks I’m cool, even if I am a bit simple. The amazing upshot–Maryanne knows of Lisa, and points out her house…which is number 74.

The moral of the story? There is none. I’m just a simple girl with a penchant for red wine and hot serial killers. And I am OK with that. And Dexter was HOT!!!